


best christmas of their lives

by rjtondale



Category: Latin American Celebrities RPF, Music RPF, Reggaeton RPF, Reggaetón Music RPF
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Mistletoe, it's Christmas, of course there's mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:07:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21867223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rjtondale/pseuds/rjtondale
Summary: If Maluma himself weren’t standing in the doorway, smiling that cocky half-smile that Balvin fell in love with, Balvin might think he had the wrong house. It looks like a Christmas bomb exploded in his living room. The normally pristine house is all red and green, silver and gold, tinsel and fake snow."You like it?"
Relationships: J Balvin/Maluma
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	best christmas of their lives

**Author's Note:**

  * For [obbel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/obbel/gifts).



> part of a not-that-secret secret santa exchange. love you, obbelita <3

“Hey,” Balvin says as soon as Maluma opens the door. “Is everything okay? What was so urgent that you…”

The words die on his tongue when he glances over Maluma’s shoulder. If Maluma himself weren’t standing in the doorway, smiling that cocky half-smile that Balvin fell in love with, Balvin might think he had the wrong house. It looks like a Christmas bomb exploded in his living room. The normally pristine house is all red and green, silver and gold, tinsel and fake snow.

“You like it?”

Balvin nods. It’s all he can do. He pushes Maluma aside and steps into the winter wonderland. Before he can make it too far, though, Maluma catches him by the hand and pulls him back. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“I said hello when I came in,” Balvin says.

“That’s not what I meant.” He points up, and Balvin’s eyes follow.

There’s a sprig of mistletoe hanging from the doorframe. Because of course there is.

Balvin doesn’t even hesitate; he throws his arms around Maluma’s neck and pulls him in for a kiss. He can feel Maluma’s half-smile turn into a real one against his mouth. It doesn’t matter that they just saw each other yesterday - they’ll never pass up a chance to hold each other like this.

But after only a few seconds, Maluma pulls away. “You have to see the tree,” he says.

“Are you going to cover my eyes and lead me like a married couple in a cheesy Christmas movie?”

“No. Actually - yes. Definitely yes.”

And he does. Maluma’s hands are warm on Balvin’s face, and it takes everything in Balvin not to stop walking and lean back into Maluma’s chest. But he really does want to see the tree, and Maluma’s subtle movements to guide him toward the living room are somehow comforting.

As if he needs to be guided. As if he doesn’t know this house as well as he knows his own.

“Okay,” Maluma says, voice low. “Three… two… one.”

Balvin gasps out loud. He knew the tree would be beautiful - it would have to be, to be at home in this house - but he had no idea how beautiful. It’s easily nine feet tall, deep green, carefully trimmed with silver tinsel and tiny white lights. It looks like it belongs in a Hallmark card or the pages of a children’s book.

“It’s perfect,” Balvin breathes. He turns to Maluma. “Did you do all this?”

Maluma laughs. “No. I mean, most of it. Some of it. Manu mostly did the tree. But it was all my… vision. I’m going to make this the best Christmas of my life.”

“Your vision, right. You chose the wrong art.” Balvin nudges Maluma, who only smiles wider.

“You love my art.”

“I do.”

Balvin examines Maluma. He’s perfect, too. Even on a normal day together - do they have normal days together? - Balvin can’t believe his luck. Now, nearly Christmas, glowing with the reflected light of Maluma’s tree, he almost wants to pinch himself to make sure he’s not dreaming.

Maluma beats him to it. “Hey!” Balvin cries.

“Just making sure you were still with me,” Maluma says.

“Always,” Balvin says. He kisses Maluma again gently - then pinches him back.

“I deserved that,” Maluma laughs.

Balvin takes both of Maluma’s hands in his, both as a romantic gesture and to stop the pinch-war before it begins. “Why did you actually invite me over, Juancho?” he asks.

“Well… I bought the ingredients to make cookies.”

“And?”

“And I think it’s actually illegal to bake Christmas cookies alone.”

* * *

It’s not their first Christmas together, but it’s their first Christmas _together_ , as a proper couple and in the same city at the same time. It’s definitely their first time baking together.

“How are you so bad at this?” Balvin asks.

“I’m not,” Maluma says.

“You are.” Balvin makes a grab for the rolling pin, but Maluma pulls it away.

“I can handle it.”

Balvin raises an eyebrow. “The dough is supposed to be a little thicker than parchment paper, papi.”

“You said to roll it. I’m rolling it. You don’t see me criticizing your icing.” Maluma flicks a tiny puff of flour at Balvin.

“Because my icing is perfect. Here, taste it.”

Balvin dips his finger in the icing and holds it out. Maluma eyes him warily; it’s not like Balvin to leave that miniature flour attack unchallenged. Balvin adopts his best angelito smile. If his hands weren’t otherwise occupied, he’d fold them in his signature prayer-hands gesture to complete the look. After a moment, Maluma gives in.

Just as he’s leaning in to lick the icing off Balvin’s finger, Balvin redirects and swipes at his nose. Maluma ducks at the last minute - but he’s not quite fast enough. The icing smears across his cheek like a neon green scar.

There’s a long pause. The kitchen is silent except for the soft Christmas music trickling in from a hidden speaker in another room. For a second, Balvin isn’t sure whether Maluma is going to kiss him or kill him.

He does neither. Instead, he takes another handful of flour and blows it into Balvin’s face like snowflakes.

Balvin laughs through his coughs, abandoning the bowl of icing in favor of his own handful of flour. Maluma is already reaching for the counter again, so Balvin knows he has to act fast. He does some quick calculus, measuring angles and weighing risks, before releasing the flour directly over Maluma’s head.

Soon, the kitchen is more of a winter wonderland than the rest of the house - every surface is coated in flour and sugar, Balvin’s and Maluma’s skin and clothes included. They collapse side-by-side onto the floor, backs against the cabinets and out of breath from laughter. It’s a good thing the cookies hadn’t made it to the oven yet, Balvin realizes. Their baking is long forgotten.

Maluma taps Balvin’s foot with his own. “I think I won.”

“I’m not the one with icing in my beard,” Balvin counters.

“We can change that.”

“Let’s not.” Balvin looks around. “Actually, I think we both lost, since we have to clean all this up in a minute.”

Maluma takes Balvin’s hand and squeezes it. “Don’t worry about it.”

Balvin squeezes back. “Is this the best Christmas of your life yet?”

“Getting there.”

Another pause, less tense than the last. Balvin shifts closer to Maluma. “Maybe we can clean ourselves up first.” He wipes the icing off Maluma’s cheek, letting his hand linger a little longer than necessary.

Maluma catches Balvin’s hand and kisses his palm. “Yes,” he says, but he makes no move to stand. There’s something in his eye that Balvin can’t quite place. Normally he would be jumping at the chance to take Balvin to bed - or to the shower, as the case may be - but he’s just sitting there.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. Nothing’s wrong.”

But he still doesn’t get up. Balvin turns to face him, still holding both his hands. Maluma is looking at him like it’s the first time they’re seeing each other. There’s enough love there to drown in it. Balvin wants to look away, but he kisses Maluma gently instead.

He tastes like flour and sugar, their almost-cookies deconstructed. The kitchen floor may be uncomfortable, but with Maluma’s lips on his, Maluma’s tongue in his mouth, their arms circling each other, Balvin feels everything else fading away. Maybe he _will_ drown in it.

Maluma hums low and pulls Balvin closer. “I love you,” he murmurs again. “So much.”

“I love you, too,” Balvin murmurs back.

Maluma kisses the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then the side of his neck. Balvin sighs. But when Maluma speaks again, it catches Balvin off-guard. “Don’t move.”

“What -”

Before he can get the rest of the question out, Maluma is gone, leaving behind a cloud of flour that sets Balvin coughing again. He recovers quickly, but Maluma still isn’t back. He can hear movement in the living room; he wants badly to follow the sound, but “don’t move” means “don’t move.”

He doesn’t move.

When Maluma returns, he’s hiding something behind his back. He offers a hand to help Balvin up, and Balvin takes it. “I was going to give this to you later,” Maluma says, “but I couldn’t wait.”

Maluma holds out a gift wrapped as perfectly as the tree. Balvin stares at it for a moment. “I didn’t bring -”

“Don’t worry about it. Just open it.”

The present is the approximate size and shape of a shoe box, but the weight is wrong. Balvin holds the box with one hand and picks at the paper gently with the other. It’s too beautiful to tear into properly.

It is a shoe box - Adidas, of course, Maluma’s contractually-obligated style, but not Balvin’s. “You -” he starts, but Maluma shakes his head. He’s grinning again.

“Open it,” he says again.

Balvin lifts the lid. Inside is a smaller box, nondescript and not wrapped. Balvin tries to pick it up, but it’s taped down - so it didn’t slide around, he assumes. He peels it up carefully.

He already knows what’s inside. He’s already shaking his head before he even opens it. But he does open it, and when he looks up again, Maluma is on one knee in front of him.

“José Álvaro Osorio Balvin,” Maluma says, “will you make this the best Christmas of our lives?”

It’s not until Maluma’s smile falters that Balvin realizes he’s still shaking his head.

“Is that a no?” Maluma asks.

“No,” Balvin says. “I mean - yes. No. No, it’s a yes. Yes, yes, yes.”


End file.
